


Peach

by wtfkovah



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Fingering, Awkward Sexual Situations, Crack, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Relationship, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24557692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfkovah/pseuds/wtfkovah
Summary: Everyone deserves a happy ending.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 292





	Peach

**Author's Note:**

> RE-UPLOAD

“We apologise for the convenience Mr Lee, but I’m absolutely certain I left a message with your receptionist asking you to re-arrange your appointment. Sehun had a family emergency to attend to, and we’ve had to cancel _all_ his appointments this week.”

Jihoon closes his eyes and despairs at his life.

It’s very likely that the Spa _did_ contact his office to reschedule and that his receptionist did _fail_ to pass on the message, seeing as it’s the same receptionist he fired on Monday for gross incompetence. But the 1-3pm extended lunch slot his packed schedule affords him every Friday is his only free moment to _have_ these appointments. Rescheduling now means waiting a whole other week, and he really doesn’t think he can survive that long with how his back’s been playing up.

“Can you perhaps fit me in with anyone else _now_? I’ve just come out of the longest meeting, and I have two hours before I’m scheduled to sit through another. My back is, quite literally, killing me.”

The receptionist levels him an apologetic look, so apologetic that Jihoon resigns himself to another week of agony, until the guy straightens up, face brightening.

“Well, _actually_ , we did just have a cancellation. I could slot you in for a session with Jisoo now, but he has another appointment at 2:30, so it will have to be a shorter one than usual as.”

Jihoon sighs, relieved, and hands over his membership card, “That’s fine. I’ll take _anything.”_

“I believe Room 5 is available,” The Receptionist says, tapping Jihoon’s details into his computer before handing the card back, “Jisoo’s still finishing up with his last client, but if you head down now, he’ll be with you shortly.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

Jihoon hums a little tune as he strips out of his clothes in the changing room and dons a complimentary dressing gown and slippers. He helps himself to some lemon water from the detox table and wanders out into the corridor, expecting to doddle for a few minutes before the massage therapist (is it bad that he’s already forgotten his name?) arrives and ushers him in. But as he ambles down the dimly lit hall, he finds the door to massage room number 5 standing ajar.

Poking his head inside, he finds the Masseur has already arrived and is busy setting up.

“Oh, you’re here already. Great.” Jihoon says, letting the door slam shut behind him.

The Masseur, who had been tinkering with a few vials of oil on the shelf, visibly startles and has to lunge after a small bottle of oil before it falls to the floor. “Woah—wha?”

“I really appreciate this,” Jihoon says, sparing the man the barest of glances before unknotting his robe and letting it pool at his feet. 

The man turns to face him at the same time, hand fumbling the bottle back onto the shelf unseeingly. “Huh?” he says, his eyes travelling down Jihoon’s frame and resting on his lower half. His eyes seem to widen fractionally, but it’s hard to say what he's thinking when the rest of his face is obscured behind a white paper facemask.

“I really appreciate you fitting me on such short notice.” Jihoon elaborates, stepping out of his slippers. The sheet on the massage table has already been pulled back and so he doesn’t hesitate to climb up onto the table and slide under it, make himself comfortable.

“I honestly don’t think I could have sat through another meeting with how my back’s feeling at the moment.” He explains, shifting until he can settle his face into the padded hole on the bench.

An awkward stillness descends on the room for a few minutes, and Jihoon just lies there waiting, staring down at the tiles. Then, slowly, footsteps shuffle lightly across the floor and the man’s shoes come into view.

Jihoon blinks in surprise at that, because in his experience therapists tend to come in one of three categories: flip-flops or Birkenstocks or sensible white tennis shoes—so it's a genuine surprise when he finds himself staring down at a pair of scuffed-to-hell black boots and the bottom edge of dark navy cargo pants.

_Wait a second…._

Isn’t the uniform here a crisp white linen tunic? He’s pretty sure it was.

Did they have a uniform re-haul since his last appointment?

Jihoon's busy pondering that thought, so when, an indeterminable time later, a hand brushes lightly up his spine, he startles a little.

“Got any preferences on oil scent?” The Masseur asks quietly.

Jihoon pushes himself up on his elbow, craning his neck to get a look at the options available. There’s the usual suspects: _Bergamot, Eucalyptus, Lavender, Cedarwood, Vanilla_ , and then oddly, _Spearmint_ —for you know, when you wanted to walk around smelling like a fucking stick of gum for the rest of the day. 

“Oh, uhm, as long as it’s not Spearmint, you can decide.” Jihoon says, letting his face drop back into the hole.

The Masseur grunts approvingly, then reaches for a small bottle. “Okay— _Peach_.”

Jihoon wrinkles his nose, “No, no—that’s too fruity a scent for me. No Peach please.”

There’s a slight hesitation in the man’s movements, and instead of setting the bottle back down and selecting another, Jihoon hears him uncap it.

Jihoon frowns at the floor, thinking— _did he not just hear what I said? That better not be Peach scented oil._ But whatever argument is forming on his lips is promptly derailed when the Masseur chooses that moment to pour the oil on his back— _straight from the bottle_.

It’s shockingly cold, and Jihoon jerks in surprise. He doesn’t even have a chance to complain about the oil not being warmed enough, because the second the man’s hands start rubbing along his skin, he sinks into the table with a pleased, “ _Yeah_.”

It only takes a minute or two before he’s groaning and relaxing under the Masseur’s attentions, the urge to complain easing out of him as the man works the knots from his muscles with patience, pressure, and a generous amount of oil.

“Oh—oh that’s _good_.”

The therapist makes a humming sound, almost as if he’s surprised, and keeps methodically massaging the muscles of Jihoon's shoulders. The hands are traversing his back in long slides now, distributing the oil evenly on his skin. Jihoon inhales coconut, vanilla, and the barest hint of something else.

Something like.….disinfectant?

 _Huh_.

Perhaps it’s just a note in the man's aftershave. Regardless, it's not _unpleasant_ , so Jihoon dismisses it and lets his eyes slip shut.

Usually, a massage for him is a meditative experience, and he often goes quiet at the first touch. This time, however, he can’t seem to shut the fuck up.

“Oh yeah, _yeah_ —right there.” Jihoon groans as the man works his thumbs in small circles right below his shoulder blades. “That’s ahh—yeah, just like that. That’s perfect.” He emphasizes the point with a low, guttural moan that could have come straight out of porn.

He should probably be embarrassed by how vocal he’s being right now, but then the man’s fingers start working at the knots near his spine, slowly climbing upwards towards his neck, and Jihoon can’t help but sob into the table, “God you’re _amazing_.”

He thinks he hears something like a snort from the guy, but before he can act on it, hands begin delicately kneading his sore shoulder, careful not to press too hard.

“Yeah, my shoulder. Get my right shoulder.” Jihoon slurs into the table.

The man's hands are rougher than most of the therapists who've worked on Jihoon, yet at times far more gentle. They linger, almost hesitantly, when they reach the small of his back, making goosebumps prickle all over Jihoon’s skin. 

Jihoon barely registers the quiet "sorry" the therapist blurts out as the light touch turns ticklish, and he bucks into the table with a breathless laugh. The fingers move away from his lower back to a safer spot, solid muscle over his flank that's already well-warmed, and Jihoon remembers how to breathe under the steady glide of those fingers.

" _Yeah_ , oh _yeah."_ Jihoon practically purrs as the man works up his back, then sinks his fingers into the base of his neck.

He hates himself for sounding like the mother of all bad pornography, but the man hums a little with each noise, sounding amused.

"You have," Jihoon says, stifling another groan, "the most wonderful hands."

“Uh—” He hears the man swallow. “Thank you.”

Slowly the man works back down Jihoon’s spine, touch and pressure more firm and confident than before. He stops briefly to fold back the sheet covering Jihoon’s lower half, then those gifted hands are settling on the small of his back, working out the kinks there too.

Jihoon can’t help but imagine how it would feel if those hands ventured lower, how those fingers would feel elsewhere. Strong, but careful. Long fingers, slick with oil. Gently calloused. Hands more than capable of holding him down and…..

_Massaging his ass?_

Holy shit.

His eyes fly open when he realises he’s not imagining it anymore, because that is most definitely the Masseur’s hands fondling his ass.

Jihoon knows he ought to snap at him, to remove those hands quickly and efficiently from his person, but the hypnotic kneading of his ass cheeks is oddly soothing.

“This isn’t a technique I’m familiar with.” Jihoon says, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

Abruptly, the massage stops, although the hands aren't withdrawn. Jihoon tries to think if what he's said can be construed as offensive in some way. He backtracks. “Not—not that I’m complaining. I’m just not used to—I didn’t expect you to.” He chews on his lip and wills himself to relax. “It’s just different to what I was expecting is all. But _hey_ , what do I know. You’re the professional.”

If the man's offended, he's handling it well because the hands return to their ministrations with only a slight hesitation.

Taking a deep breath, Jihoon closes his eyes and forces his mind to go blank. He focuses on the warmth of the oil on his skin, surrounding him, sinking into his pores. It suffuses his muscles, draws sweat up through his skin. He feels hot everywhere, but hotter on his back and neck somehow—even though the man’s hands have abandoned the muscles there completely to squeeze and knead his butt cheeks.

And wow, he’s—he’s _really_ devoting himself to the task now, firmly cupping each cheek with _just_ the right amount of pressure to send all the wrong signals to Jihoon’s libido.

 _Is he trying to turn me on?—_ Jihoon thinks wildly.

Obviously not, the thought is absurd.

“How’s that feeling?” The therapist husks into his ear, and sweet baby Jesus, he sounds like he belongs on a phone sex hotline.

Jihoon shudders, the hairs on his neck standing on end as the man’s thumb, or maybe it was his index finger, brushes intimately up against the rim of his hole on the upstroke.

Jihoon very carefully shifts his hips against the table, making the motion as casual as it can possibly be without looking like he’s squirming. There is no fucking way his body is responding to this situation. He is a man of the world. Jaded. Impenetrable.

Except that he really _would_ like to be penetrated, actually.

Just not now, and not under these circumstances. And definitely not with…...

Oh, oh _fuck_ —Jihoon thinks, realizing with a start that he's getting an erection, that he’s incredibly aroused. For once he's glad all he can see is the floor. 

“Jesus—your _ass_.” The man’s voice takes a tumble into a lower, flirtier octave as he squeezes the cheeks roughly in both hands. “For a little guy, it sure is peachy.” He chuckles, stopping only to deliver a sharp smack to the left cheek.

Jihoon chokes out something unintelligible, possibly outraged, because this massage has clearly veered off track. It’s all become so wildly inappropriate he’s got every right to say something. Possibly even yell something. Something defamatory.

And he will, honestly, just as soon as the man stops squeezing his ass cheeks together roughly, then spreading them apart—then together—then—

“Bet you’re as tight as anything.” The Masseur says, breathing a warm puff of air over Jihoon’s exposed rim.

And that’s it, the final blow to whatever flimsy self-control Jihoon has left.

Oh god, he doesn’t _care_. He doesn’t care how inappropriate this is. His body especially doesn’t care, what with how it’s arching up into the strong hands groping his ass and grinding back down against the table in search of friction.

Jihoon lets out the loudest involuntary _groan_ about the same time the hands glide to a stop, one on each butt cheek, their grip tightening slightly.

They're both deathly quiet for a moment, then Jihoon hears himself whisper without shame, “Wh—why’d you stop?”

His breath catches in his lungs as fingers circle his entrance, smooth and practiced, and the man asks, “You want me to keep going?”

“Y-yes.” Jihoon gasps.

The man chuckles, and Jihoon chokes back a little moan as two of his fingers stroke up _inside_ him without pause, knowing, _somehow_ , exactly what Jihoon can take and how little he has patience for.

It’s an immediate fight to keep from coming there and then. Even though the man is still stroking him gently, sliding his fingers experimentally in and out, Jihoon has to battle with his control because those fingers are _thick_ , pressing against nerves, pressing at the soft, pliant parts of Jihoon that _nobody_ gets to touch.

Jihoon’s cock rubs wetly against the table with each torturous slide of those fingers inside him. He's dripping with pre-come, drooling out of the corner of his mouth and he can't last long with this kind of treatment, with this man working him from the inside and out.

“Please, please—" He pleads, shaky and rough. “I—I need.”

The fingers withdraw then, and a moment later Jihoon finds himself turned gently onto his back. He moans at the loss of those fingers as his head drops back against the table, his legs going slack again.

He’s pretty sure they won’t be able to pick up where they left off, but it turns out to be not so difficult. It only requires Jihoon to _look_ up at the man, who’s ripped the face mask off at some point. Now Jihoon can see the rest of his face—the sharp, lightly stubbled jaw and the wet sheen of his full lips where he's licked them.

He’s handsome.

Jesus, he’s _more_ than handsome—which, in a petty shallow way, really, really helps because if Jihoon was ever going to let some stranger finger fuck him to orgasm, it’s somehow suddenly acceptable when he’s _this_ smoking hot. 

Though the guy still hasn’t made any move to touch him again for some reason. He _does_ lift a hand, but stops himself from touching, as if he thinks Jihoon might not want him too. Peering at him more closely now, Jihoon can see the indecision writ on his face. He looks almost shell-shocked, pupils blown wide and with his mouth hanging slack and open. He closes it after a moment, opens it again to say something and apparently thinks better of it.

“D-don’t stop.” Jihoon says, his voice a low rasp, hands grabbing and pulling at the man’s shirt with clumsy urgency, “ _Please_.”

The Masseur swallows thickly and nods, then a strong hand grips Jihoon’s leg and helps him bend one knee against his chest. Before he can spread his thighs to accommodate the new angle, the man’s fingers are slipping back inside him and _twisting_. 

“Oh, oh fuck—” Jihoon gasps, head lolling to the side. It’s impossible to miss that the Masseur has also found the massage rather stimulating, how his cock is distending the front of his pants in a very distracting way. And it’s—it’s big. _Huge_ even. There’s no denying that. Jihoon would need more than two fingers to prepare him for—

“Fuck—” Jihoon gasps, squeezing his eyes shut and willing the thought away before it can surface completely.

His eyes fly open again a second later when a hand lays flat on his stomach, pressing _down_ , and his breath catches as the man spreads his fingers apart inside him.

“What do you want?” The man asks.

Jihoon's brow creases, and it's really not a fair question when the man is sliding two fingers in and out of his ass, but he considers his answer, his eyes fluttering. "Just keep going—please.”

The man arches an eyebrow in a way that manages to be unutterably filthy. “That _all_ you want? Hmm? Are you sure you don’t want me to—"

Jihoon’s hips give a hopeful twitch when the man’s free hand sweeps down his torso, towards his leaking cock. It stops just below Jihoon’s navel, just as the man angles the fingers inside him, crooking them and stroking until Jihoon whimpers.

“Fuck, fuck, yes. _Please_.” Jihoon moans, shuddering into the stimulation, fucking himself down onto the man’s hand, "Touch me.”

The man trails his fingers along Jihoon's side. Jihoon's chest dips sharply at the light touch. Suddenly it doesn't matter that this is probably the worst idea ever. Definitely not a bad idea when the man curls his hand, slick with oil, around Jihoon’s cock and starts to stroke.

" _Yes_ ," Jihoon breathes out, clawing at the table frantically and rolling his hips up into the man’s grip.

"Fuck—look at you," The Man’s hand hitches for a moment, and then he starts up again, his grip tighter. He rubs around the neck of Jihoon’s cock and swipes his thumb over the slit before pressing down on it with just the right amount of pressure to make Jihoon cry. “You’re fucking _gorgeous_.”

With all his blood pooling southwards, it shouldn’t be possible for Jihoon to blush right now, but he manages it somehow. He feels his cheeks heat, unbearably warm, but it all feels too fucking good to care about.

His stomach clenches with each rub of the man’s hand—a perfect stranger, fingering and stroking him towards climax—and the thrill of it burns hot through his veins. He moans, low and deep, arching each time those fingers curl and twist inside him.

The Masseur keeps up a steady pace, stroking at Jihoon's prostate from the inside and sliding a calloused hand over his prick, until Jihoon’s vocabulary is reduced to nothing but broken whimpers.

“You’re so fucking tight Little Peach.” The Masseur says, eyes turning dark and glittering. “What’s got you so tensed up like this. Been a while, has it?” He punctuates the last few words with a tug at Jihoon’s rim, teasing him with a wider stretch.

"Ah—ah," Jihoon gasps, knocking the air from his lungs, his body going tight at the stimulation, "That's, too much—t _oo much._ "

The man licks his lips, loosening his hold on Jihoon’s cock, "Don't tense up baby, relax for me, that's it."

Jihoon lets out a whine, but the tension drains again, and soon enough the man resumes his ministrations.

It’s not long before he has Jihoon squirming again though, curving his back off the table, taking short, stuttered breaths that stall every time the man’s fingers move just so. When he feels the nudge of a third finger sliding in alongside the others, the noise he makes probably would be a sob if he wasn't moaning through it.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck. I’m gonna—Oh, god—you’re gonna make me—"

"Shh—there, there," The man coos, rubbing little circles on Jihoon's belly and pressing up against his prostate from the inside, "That’s it beautiful, _come for me."_

And Jihoon does, his whole body goes taut and he comes with a cry, spilling on the man’s hand and his own stomach. The man smirks and flattens his palm, splaying his fingers out and bracing against Jihoon's tensing abs while he fights the clench on his fingers so he can keep stroking, keep dragging it out until Jihoon is dripping and spent, sobbing softly at every touch against that oversensitive bundle of nerves.

Carefully, the man withdraws his fingers and eases Jihoon’s leg down, holds it flat against the table as he dips his head low and laps at the puddle of come on Jihoon’s belly. Which would be hot as fuck if Jihoon weren’t too busy _dying_.

There’s a muted roar in his ears that definitely has to be his brain shutting down. He can’t breathe. His body is out of control, quivering and twitching through what is easily the best goddamn orgasm of his entire life.

Jihoon lays there bonelessly for a while, listening as the man pants heavily above him. It’s possible he drifts off for a minute or two, because when his eyes slit open at last, he finds he’s been wiped down and the sheet has been pulled up over his waist.

The Masseur’s still standing over him, looking more put together than before, though there’s a tight, conflicted expression marring his features that suggests _something_ is bothering him. 

Jihoon smiles up at him, heavy-lidded and sated and so fucking blissed out.

“That was uhm—” His mouth his dry and his voice cracks like brittle wood. He has to swallow a few times recover some moisture before he can continue. “Do they teach you that in massage school?”

The masseur’s expression tightens further, until it can only be described as a grimace. 

“Listen, pal, I’m gonna level with you here. I’m not actually—”

“Seungcheol?”

They both snap their heads to the side to stare at the man framing the doorway. A slighter man, wearing a crisp, white linen tunic and holding a clipboard in his hand. He divides a look between them, then his gaze homes in on Jihoon’s masseur.

“Seungcheol? What the hell are you _doing_ in here?”

“I was uhm, I was—” The Masseur, _Seungcheol apparently,_ stammers, turning a distressed shade of purple, mouth twisting unhappily. “Cleaning?”

The intruder raises a nonbelieving eyebrow, and points at the bottle of oil sitting uncapped on a nearby table.

“Were you massaging my _client_?”

Jihoon scrambles to sit up, head swinging back sharply to gape at Seungcheol. “Wait a second, If you’re not my message therapist, who the hell are you?” He demands, torn between outrage and slow, creeping horror.

“Well,” Seungcheol chirps, side stepping awkwardly towards a mop and bucket sitting in the corner of the room. “ _That’s_ my cue to leave. You have a nice day Sir.”

Jihoon’s eyes widen in shock when Seungcheol reaches for the mop, then starts rolling the bucket out of the room, and with his back fully turned, the inscription ‘Janitor’ is clearly visible on the back of his uniform.

Pieces start to fit themselves together in Jihoon’s head, belatedly. So fucking belatedly he could face palm at his own idiocy.

_He’s the fucking Janitor!_

“Mr Lee,” The _real_ Masseur begins apologetically as the door clicks shut behind him, “I’m not sure how this happened, but I can only apologise—”

Jihoon lifts a hand to silence him, letting it drop heavily a moment later when the man clamps his mouth shut. He takes a moment to compose himself, then reaches down to pick up the dressing gown he’d discarded in haste and shakes it out.

He really doesn’t know what to think or say right now, all he knows is that he really needs to get the hell out of there before he can commit any more acts of stupidity.

* * *

Jihoon spends the majority of his next board meeting staring blankly at his notes, emotions veering wildly between mortification and anger and, stupidly, disappointment. He doesn’t know _why_ he bothered showing up to the meeting at all; he’s not exactly in a position to make any useful contributions when all he can think about is that _man_ —Seungcheol, a Janitor for fucks sake—and his hands, and the smug smirk on his lips when he milked Jihoon through his orgasm.

 _The best orgasm of your life—_ His brain reminds him unhelpfully.

Jihoon grits his teeth and attempts to refocus his attention on his notes. He succeeds for all of 2 minutes, before he shifts forward in his seat to reach a glass of water and his ass reminds him of how thoroughly wrecked he’d been not more than an hour ago.

 _I hope they fire his ass—_ he thinks spitefully, then; more urgently— _Oh my god, they’re going to fire him._

_This is perfect!_

* * *

Jihoon manages to make a relatively quick escape once the meeting ends, dodging the customary invitations for dinner and drinks and hightailing it to his car.

He pulls up outside the Spa a little after 5pm, just in time to see Seungcheol striding across the employee car park, a helmet and a cardboard box in hand.

Seungcheol’s eschewed what Jihoon can only assume was his _Janitor’s_ uniform for a pair of dark wash jeans, a black leather jacket and riding gloves. And oh, that— _that_ right there should be his Masseur’s uniform.

That should be _every_ Masseur’s uniform.

Jihoon would pay good money to be massaged by someone dressed like that. And if he wasn’t sure about this part of his plan before, he’s 100% certain now.

Killing the engine, he jumps out of the car and follows Seungcheol’s trail towards a parked up jet-black Kawasaki bike.

Seungcheol’s already dumped his box of belongings in a nearby trash can, and he’s got his helmet in both hands, about to shove it over his head when Jihoon calls out, “Hey, you. _Wait_.”

Seungcheol pulls the helmet off again and glances over, and Jihoon can see his shoulders droop, can see him mouth a quiet ‘ _shit’_ under his breath as he approaches. 

Jihoon stops a few feet away from the bike, weathering his lower lip anxiously as his mind replays the speech he’d been practicing on his short trip here. Just as he’s opening his mouth to speak, Seungcheol raises a hand to stop him.

“Save it, alright, they fired me. If you wanna sue me—go ahead. The only thing I have that’s worth taking is this bike, and I won’t be able to afford it much longer, so you’re welcome to it.”

Jihoon shifts awkwardly on his feet, unable to look Seungcheol in the eye. “I’m—I’m not going to sue you.”

Seungcheol sighs out a defeated gust of air in response. Setting his helmet down on the bike seat, he approaches, hands held out in the universal gesture of surrender. “Fine. You wanna take a swing at me instead? Is that it? Go on, I won’t stop you. I know I deserve it.”

Jihoon bites back the sigh that wants to escape and folds his arms instead.

“How much per hour?” He asks, cutting to the chase.

Seungcheol jerks back one step, then blinks at him, slowly. “What?”

“How much do you _charge_ per hour?” Jihoon repeats impatiently.

The way Seungcheol _stares_ back at him, Jihoon half-expects the guy to take a swing himself. Except Seungcheol just swallows, lowers his hand and says in a thick voice, “What part of me not being a massage therapist did you not understand back there?”

Jihoon levels him a pointed look. “I _know_ you’re not a massage therapist, okay. I’ve had the last 3 hours to replay that session in my head and kick myself over how I didn’t notice it before. But all my brain keeps coming back to is how that was the best orgasm I’ve had my entire life.”

“Wha—R-really?” Seungcheol chokes out.

Jihoon fixes his gaze somewhere over his shoulder, hoping to find something fascinating to distract him from the heat burning his cheeks. There’s nothing but a row of parked cars and crowd of people loitering at a bus stop, serving to remind him he’s having this discussion in _public._

“I’ll pay you $200 dollars per session. I generally expect to pay less for a massage from an amateur, but seeing as this will be a _home_ visit and I’ll be expecting you three times a week, I think that’s a fair compromise for your— _services_.”

When he finally meets Seungcheol eyes, Seungcheol is nodding, slowly at first like he's dazed, then quicker. “Okay, but you should know I would _happily_ do all that again for free, cause you are hot as--”

“I prefer to keep things professional.” Jihoon interjects in the cool, sterilized tone he uses at work.

“—ab-absolutely. Sure.” Seungcheol amends awkwardly on the fly. He smiles, eyes going huge with relief. “I can keep it professional. Professional is my middle name.”

Jihoon narrows his eyes at him, making his dubiousness clear.

He rather doubts Seungcheol can even _spell_ the word professional, but he’s so far past giving a shit right now. Seungcheol can be an ex-janitor, can be a gun totting, biker gang leader for all he cares. He just wants, no—he just _needs_ those hands back on his body as soon as possible. And maybe one day down the line, that dick…

“This is my business card.” Jihoon interrupts the perverted nosedive of his own thoughts to whip out his business card, “Give me a call later, so we can arrange my next appointment.”

Seungcheol takes the card, studies it, then slips it into his back pocket. He reaches for Jihoon's hand next, to _shake_ it apparently—but holds on too long, stroking his thumb insinuatingly over Jihoon's skin.

“ _Jihoon,_ huh? That’s a nice name.”

“It’ll be Mr Lee to you.” Jihoon says as he snatches his hand back, scowling. Obviously it’s going to be important to establish firm boundaries with Seungcheol from the beginning.

But Seungcheol just leans in closer, as if he is utterly blind to Jihoon's death glare. If anything, Jihoon’s patented ‘approach at your own risk’ death glare only serves to make Seungcheol smirk more gleefully. 

“Sure thing Peach.”

**Author's Note:**

> Still contemplating turning this into a series....:/ Maybe when I have more time :(


End file.
